


seaside

by lucigucci



Series: so you're a simp for elliot stardew valley... [1]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucigucci/pseuds/lucigucci
Summary: the farmer discovers the elusive writer by the sea, and possibly discovers a friend in the processhttps://open.spotify.com/playlist/3pOoiImyTFyp6KqTSCbeXm?si=gTybXwwZQKO7aVnEBVviyA
Relationships: Elliott/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Elliott/Male Player (Stardew Valley), Elliott/Player (Stardew Valley)
Series: so you're a simp for elliot stardew valley... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123496
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	seaside

Salty air rustles the trees beside the beach. Clouds are beginning to gather in the otherwise periwinkle sky. Waves roll one after the other to kiss the shore, pushing past the pier with lazy intent, speckling the wingtip shoes dangling over the side of the dock. You stop in your tracks, breath caught in your throat with nothing to do with the autumn chill. Both feet sink into the sand.

Elliott has tied his hair back today to keep the wind from whipping it into his face as he reads. The open book on his lap has to be held with two hands so the pages don’t blow ahead. His sharp profile is softened, thinking he’s alone, except for a little puzzled frown riddling his lips. 

You pad forward, slow to keep from startling him. “Mr. Elliott?” you say.

He jolts so suddenly, the book almost falls out of his hands into the sea below, but he catches it just before it hits the surf. “Gah! Who’s there?” He whips his head around until his eyes meet yours. “Er-- ah. Hello. Forgive me, I was… very absorbed in my book.”

“Sorry,” you add.

“It’s quite alright. I daresay I should take a break anyway.” He rises from his seat, joints crackling like cereal, stowing the book in the pocket of his coat. “I don’t want to sound forward, but do I know you?”

You smile and hold out your hand for him to shake, which he does. “I’m the new farmer. I moved into my grandfather’s old estate two weeks ago and I’m still figuring things out around here.”

“And that includes meeting the town, eh?”

“That’s right! Robin told me that I could find you at the beach.” You withdraw your hand and shift your stance. “Actually, I… I’ve been coming down here every day for the past few days or so, but I never caught you until today.”

He raises his eyebrows. You can’t tell if he’s impressed or concerned. “I tend to move around. Staying in one place for too long dulls my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

Elliott pats the book in his pocket. “I’m a writer. If I don’t have my wits about me, I am utterly useless.”

“Ah, I think I know what you mean,” you lie. “I move around a lot too. It seems like there’s never enough time in the day to do everything, you know?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Do you have anything published? I’d love to pick up a copy the next time I’m at Pierre’s.”

He casts a quick but knowing glance at your bulging backpack. “Do farmers… often have time to read?”

“Well, no, but I can make an exception,” you say with a wink.

Elliott chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m flattered, really, but I confess I don’t have anything published. I’m not even finished with anything. Writer’s block has inflicted me for… oogh, for too long. I came to the valley to try to cure it-- fresh salt air and a change of scenery and all that, but all I have now are crabs.”

“Crabs?” you yelp, flushing.

“Um, real crabs!” he remedies quickly. “Not the mites, I swear! I try to stay well-groomed even in my solitude-- I mean-- crabs, they crawl up beside my cabin looking for food, like pigeons-- and I-- erm... crabs…”

Awkward silence mingles with the wind. Nobody attempts to make eye contact. 

“I don’t talk to people very often,” he admits.

“It’s okay.” You try to catch his eye with a smile. “I like crabs. Their shells are really cool.”

He meets your gaze, and tries to smile back. “Yes… crabs are cool.”

You turn and point to the shack farther up the beach. You thought nobody lived there, for how rickety and weatherbeaten it is, but it must belong to Elliott. “Is that your house?”

“Mm-hmm. Prime beachfront property, isn’t it?”

That’s... one way to describe it. You nod politely. “The boat too? Do you take it out on the water very often?”

He fiddles with the end of his ponytail. “It… was here when I moved in. I’m afraid I have neither the expertise nor the motivation to fix it up.”

You crane your head to get a better look at it. “I could take a look at it for you,” you offer. “I’ve been doing a lot of DIY since I got here, it shouldn’t be a problem for me.”

“Oh--! That’s kind, but no thank you. It’s my burden.”

“Your… burden?”

He beckons for you to follow him up the shore, which you do. He’s at least ten times more adept at crossing the sand than you, and you stumble a little in his wake. “It doesn’t technically belong to me, so if I were to use it, I would want to be the one to ensure that it sails smoothly. Does that make sense? I want to _earn_ it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense!”

He checks back on you right as you trip on a piece of driftwood and land square on your face. You hoist yourself up on all fours, spitting sand out and blushing all over. “Are you-- do you need help?”

“No, I just-- blehhh! Not used to walking on sand!”

Laughing, Elliott squats down beside you and brushes sand from your hair and shoulders, deepening your embarrassment. “It’s all a matter of finding your center of gravity, my dear. If you ever come my way again, I’m sure you will already have improved.”

 _My dear._ You shiver and nod. 

“On that note, I’m sure you have plenty of work to get back to.” He straightens your shirt collar, but his hands linger just enough for you to notice before he stands up. “Come by the docks in the afternoon. I’m sure our paths will cross again if you want them to.”

“I do,” you say.

He opens his mouth to reply, then thinks better of it and settles on a formal wave goodbye as he marches to his cabin. You stand up and tear your gaze from him as you wobble back across the beach to the bridge back to town. The color of his fiery hair is seared into your retinas, and even back on the mainland, the brisk scent of seasalt won’t leave your nostrils.


End file.
